


(Im)mortal Affairs

by EarthboundCosmonaut



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018), Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: 19th Century, 5 Times, As you'd expect when British characters are involved, Because Brits, Canon Bisexual Character, F/F, Jack the Ripper - Freeform, Not much tea actually gets drunk, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rarepair, Tea is discussed a lot, There will also be discussion of weather, Women Being Awesome, meetings through history
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:08:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22898506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EarthboundCosmonaut/pseuds/EarthboundCosmonaut
Summary: Or five times Helen Magnus and Zelda Spellman didn't take tea together, and one time they did. Beause what are the chances that two intelligent, long-lived, well travelled women don't cross paths at some point?
Relationships: Helen Magnus & Zelda Spellman, Helen Magnus/Zelda Spellman
Comments: 24
Kudos: 28





	1. London, November 1887

**Author's Note:**

> I realise that there's potentially a very limited audience for this crossover. However, I started thinking that if Helen Magnus and Zelda Spellman existed in the same universe they would definitely cross paths. It gave me the inspiration for a 5+1, and I've been wanting to write one of those for a while now - so here it is. 
> 
> Events are entirely pre-canon for CAOS. Some chapeters will make references to canon events in Sanctuary. Hopefully the story can still be appreciated without a detailed knowledge of both shows. Awareness of the general premises would be an advantage though (see end note).

Helen pulled her hood further over her head. Autumn rain mingled with the London fog as it fell, landing in fat dirty drops that stained anything they came in contact with. She had already been standing in it long enough that water had soaked through her boots, and now it was starting to seep through her cloak as well. She pulled the doorbell again and then rapped on the door for good measure – loud bangs with the heel of her hand.

It was very unusual that she had to wait this long. Perhaps there was nobody home – although she could see a light in the upstairs window…

She shifted the basket she carried in the crook of her arm, adjusting the tarpaulin cover to ensure that no rain got in. It was getting late. The lack of response may signal that the householder was not at home to visitors. She would have to try again tomorrow. With a sigh Helen turned back to the street. “Come on then, let’s get you back in the warm.”

She had just reached the foot of the stairs when the front door swung open. Helen turned to see a woman standing in the doorway. It was evident from her clothes that she was not a servant. She wore a burgundy silk dress embellished with jet beading and an exquisite lace collar. She was also most definitely _not_ Hilda Spellman.

“Can I help you?” the woman asked, her voice deep and haughty. Helen detected an accent – North American, if she wasn’t mistaken.

She re-mounted the steps. “Doctor Helen Magnus to see Hilda Spellman,” she said, tilting her hood back a little so the woman could see her face.

Green eyes examined her dispassionately. “She’s not here.”

“Is Clara at home?” Helen asked, enquiring after the maid.

“She has the evening off.”

“And you are?” pressed Helen.

The woman bristled at being challenged. “Zelda Spellman.”

Hilda’s sister. Hilda had made reference to her in passing, but Helen had always imagined someone rather like Hilda – homely and comforting. Not this glamorous and frosty creature. “May I come in and wait, Miss Spellman? It’s imperative that I see Hilda as soon as she returns.”

“She’s been called out. I don’t know when she will be back. You may try again tomorrow.”

She made to shut the door. Helen jammed her foot in the doorway to stop it from closing. “It’s very important.”

“How dare you!?” demanded Zelda. Helen felt a crackle of electricity in the air. “Remove your foot or I will remove it for—”

A thin wail cut off the woman’s threat. Zelda’s eyes snapped to the basket on Helen’s arm. “Is that a–”

“A baby, yes,” said Helen.

Zelda snatched the basket from her and peered under the tarpaulin cover. “This is not a mortal babe,” she said, reaching down to stroke the child’s cheek.

“I know. That’s why I’ve brought her to Miss Spellman,” said Helen.

“You’d better come in.”

Zelda swept into the house. Her attention was entirely focused on the fussing child in the basket. “Poor little thing,” she muttered, discarding the soaked tarpaulin on the hall floor and carrying the basket towards the kitchen. “Let’s get you out of these nasty wet clothes.”

Left alone in the hallway, Helen closed the front door and divested herself of her soaked cloak and gloves, hanging them on the coat stand.

She found Zelda in the kitchen. She had placed the basket on the kitchen table and was in the process of examining the baby, handling the little limbs tenderly as she checked her over for injury. “How did you come by this child?” she demanded as Helen entered the room. “Where are her parents?”

“I don’t know. Dead, I suspect.”

Zelda up at her, eyes narrowed. “By your hand?”

“Certainly _not_. My colleagues and I found her in the possession of a merchant who trades in rare creatures. The child had been stolen to order – probably for a buyer who hoped to harness her magical powers when she grows older.”

“ _Despicable_ ,” said Zelda with such venom that the baby squawked. “Give me the name of this merchant and I will ensure that this is the last trade that he ever makes.”

“I’ve already seen to that,” Helen assured her.

Zelda studied her. It was the first time since answering the door to her that she had acknowledged Helen’s presence with anything other than irritation. The witch’s gaze was cool and appraising. “Can I offer you a drink, Doctor Magnus?” she asked finally.

Helen nodded. “That would be most welcome.”

“Wait here,” Zelda instructed her. She left the room, carrying the baby with her.

Helen was thoroughly chilled. Her cloak had only done so much to keep the rain off and her clothes clung to her damply. She went to stand before the range, holding her hands over the hot plate in an effort to warm herself.

Zelda returned a few minutes later, the baby now swaddled in a lambswool blanket and tucked securely against her shoulder. In her free hand she carried a bundle of fabric and a decanter of port.

“Your clothes are soaked,” Zelda told her, handing her the fabric. “Hang your outer garments over the range awhile. You may wear this”

Helen took from her a banyan made of quilted silk. She assumed it must belong to Zelda, as she couldn’t imagine Hilda Spellman owning such a decadent item. “Thank you.”

She removed her wet boots and hung her stockings, overskirt and bodice on the airer before slipping on the banyan. By the time she had arranged her clothes, a generous measure of port stood waiting for her on the kitchen table.

Zelda sat on the far side of the table, the child on her lap. Helen took her seat and watched as Zelda took a knife and sliced open her own palm, squeezing the bright crimson blood into a jug.

“Witch’s blood mixed with goat’s milk,” she said, noticing Helen’s curious gaze. “It is what is given to witching children when the mother cannot nurse.”

Helen took a sip of her port and watched as Zelda stirred the mixture, then syphoned some into a pipette and teased the child’s mouth with it. It didn’t take much coaxing for the baby to latch on to the end and begin to suckle. “The poor mite is starving,” observed Zelda, refilling the now-empty pipette. “When did you last have a proper meal, little one?”

“I confess that I couldn’t offer her anything as substantial at the Sanctuary,” Helen said. The woman’s attention was almost entirely focused on the child. The gentleness in her manner was a stark contrast to her earlier demeanour. “You are very good with children,” she observed.

“We are a family of midwives,” Zelda told her, not taking her eyes off the girl’s face. “I have not practiced much of late, but one does not forget how to care for a babe.”

Helen took another sip of her port, content to sit and soak up the warmth of the range while Zelda finished tending to the child.

When the milk was finished Zelda burped the babe, then settled her in the crook of her neck. “There, there, my sweetling, time to sleep now,” she murmured, although the baby’s head already lay heavy against her shoulder. When she was sure that the child was asleep, Zelda turned her gaze to Helen. “Tell me how you came by her.”

“I run a facility called the Sanctuary. We give shelter to cryptids and other abnormal creatures that require protection. Sometimes, that involves challenging those who seek to trade in such creatures. I discovered our young friend in the possession of such a dealer.”

Zelda cradled the back of the baby’s head. “Witches are not _abnormal creatures_ , and they are certainly not possessions to be traded by _mortals_ ,” she whispered fiercely.

“Indeed, which is why I thought that your sister might be best placed to find a home for her. With any luck, she may even be able to trace a relative.”

“We will make sure she is taken care of.”

The quiet was shattered by the sound of the front door banging open and closed. “Zelds!” called a voice from the hall. “Are you still awake? Satan in hell, it’s _freezing_ out there – my toes are like ice.” Zelda made no effort to respond as Hilda’s voice drifted closer to them from the hall. “I’m _dying_ for a cuppa. It was a trying birth, although I confess that the mother in law gave me more trouble than mother or child. Why do some women think that merely having given birth qualifies them to _deliver_ a baby?” Hilda appeared in the doorway, her hair and clothes even wetter than Helen’s had been. “Oh, excuse me, I didn’t realise we had company.”

Helen rose to her feet. “Hilda, I apologise for imposing at such a late hour.”

“Not at all, my love,” Hilda told her, kissing her on both cheeks. “You’re always welcome. You’ve met my sister, I see. Been looking after you, has she?” The question was addressed to Helen, but it was accompanied by a quizzical look directed at Zelda.

Zelda glared back. “Of course.”

“I have been made very welcome,” Helen assured her.

“Oh, and you’ve brought a little guest with you,” Hilda said, leaning down to look at the baby. “Who’s this poppet?”

She reached out to touch her but Zelda twisted away. “You’re wet, sister. You’ll give her a chill.”

Hilda seemed nonplussed by her sister’s sharp tone. “Very well,” she said, straightening up and walking towards the range. “I’ll put the kettle on, shall I? Who’d like a nice cup of tea?”

Zelda shook her head, answering for them both: “Not for us. Doctor Magnus and I already have a drink.”


	2. London,  September 1888

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helen searches the streets of Whitechapel for a killer, and finds that she is not the only one with the Ripper in her sights.

It was officially autumn, but the city was enjoying an Indian summer. Fine, still weather had baked the mess of horse and human excrement that coated the streets into compacted dust. Without a breeze, particles of soot and industrial chemicals hung in the air, making the throat prickle and the eyes burn if one stayed outdoors too long. As she turned off Commercial Street into Flower & Dean Street, Helen pulled her scarf over her nose and mouth in an attempt to keep out the worst of it. If it were daytime she might have worn a veil as well, but it was long past midnight and the dim orange light cast by the gas lanterns was hard enough to see by as it was.

It had been almost two weeks since the last body was found. At James’ insistence she had assisted at the postmortem. The attack had been vicious and violent, yet one could not describe it as frenzied. There had been method in the manner in which sections of flesh and intestine had been cut away and placed to one side to allow access to the organs which had been selected for removal. Some skill, even. It was not savagery so much as butchery. One might even say it bordered on the surgical.

She had felt James’s eyes boring into her as she catalogued the viscera and identified the parts that had been taken as – as what? Trophies? Food? Offerings? He had watched as she studied what remained of Annie Chapman, his gaze never wavering as she had concluded _This attack is calculated. The attacker may have felt strong emotions, but he was also intelligent. We are looking for a sentient being_. James had nodded. _One who considers the lives of women to be of little value_.

Helen had stared down at the two deep lacerations that bisected Annie Chapman’s neck. The man who made those cuts had not merely thought her worthless, he had felt hatred and rage. She was seldom frightened, but this frightened her. She had turned aside, busying herself with adding to her notes. She had not want James to see her creeping realisation that the flavour of this particular combination of rage and intelligence tasted familiar.

She had been patrolling the streets of Whitechapel most weekend nights since. The principles of tracking were the same, regardless of what you were hunting. There were patterns, if you knew how to look. The attacker struck at the weekend. He confined himself to a small grid of streets. He approached women too vulnerable to say no to a man, no matter what they might have seen in his eyes. He struck swiftly with barely contained fury.

Further up the street she saw a flash of something pale in the shadowy recess of a doorway – a woman’s calico skirt. She hastened her step, keeping out of the pools of light beneath the street lamps. The woman was stepping forward – talking to someone. Someone much taller, judging by the way she was craning her neck to address him.

As she drew closer she made out the outline of a man’s wool coat. He was tall and lean, his unfashionably long hair tied at the name of his neck. Her breath caught in her throat.

The man lifted his arm. A blade flashed in the lamplight as he raised it above his head.

“John!” Helen shouted, sprinting towards the figures.

The woman turned to look at her, her mouth open in surprise. John stood stock still, his right hand still raised ready to strike.

“Step back,” Helen told the woman, levelling her pistol at John. “He means to harm you.” Still he didn’t turn towards her – didn’t move at all. It was as though he was a wax work statue.

“Please, step aside,” she told the woman, who still stood within his arm’s reach.

She seemed unfazed by the whole incident. She turned back to look at John, sizing him up through narrowed eyes. Her right hand, Helen saw, was raised to shoulder height, the fingers and thumb pinched together in a point. “As you wish,” she said, moving backwards so that she stood on the edge of a pool of lamplight.

John’s gaze followed her, darting between Helen and the woman he had been about to attack. Otherwise he remained motionless. “What are you?” he demanded.

A smile curled around her lips. “Something a little more powerful than those you usually prey on.” Her tone was low and her accent educated – not at all the kind of voice one expected to hear from a woman roaming the streets of Whitechapel in a tattered calico dress in the middle of the night.

 _He can’t move_ , Helen realised. This woman was holding John in place. Fear flashed through his eyes, and the part of Helen that was still his fiancée felt sympathy for him.

She cocked her gun. If ever there was an opportunity to put an end to this savagery once and for all, this was it.

“ _Helen_ ,” muttered John, his voice and eyes suddenly soft. How easy it was for him to adopt the persona of the loving, cultured man. Had it always been merely a persona, or had the Source Blood changed him? Had she and her reckless thirst for knowledge turned him into this beast? “Helen,” he repeated, “I need your help. Only you can cure me.”

She shook her head. “You are beyond anyone’s help.”

He held her gaze, his expression pleading. She wanted so badly to believe him. She also knew that she had allowed herself to be blinded by this desire for far too long. How many women’s lives might she have saved if she had admitted the truth to herself sooner?

She squeezed the trigger. There was a flash at the end of the barrel. The sound of the gun firing echoed off the faceless windows of the narrow street.

John dematerialised before the bullet reached him.

She and the woman stood staring at each other, the woman’s hand still raised in a holding gesture. Helen lowered her gun. The woman lowered her hand.

“Well,” she said in her incongruous accent, “It seems he was not all he appeared to be either.”

Helen fastened the safety catch and tucked the pistol back into its holster. She felt sick and shaken. She had not, until this moment, accepted the truth of the Ripper’s identity. Now that she could no longer deny it, reality seemed to lurch off its axis. She reached out for the grimy wall to her right and leaned heavily against it.

“Are you unwell, Doctor Magnus?” asked the woman, moving to her side. _Doctor Magnus_? _Have we met before_?

“Who are you?” she asked. Her voice was hoarse and breathy in her ears.

“I apologise, perhaps this might be a little more familiar.” There was a flicker and the figure before her transformed. Still a woman, but one with red hair, fine features and an elegant silk dress.

“Miss Spellman.”

Zelda nodded. “I confess these were not the circumstances under which I had imagined meeting you again.”

A window opened somewhere above them. There was a low hum of voices – urgent and worried.

“We should leave now,” Zelda said. “There are police patrols out tonight - they will investigate the gunfire.”

“I have an office at the London Hospital,” Helen told her, righting herself. “I might even stretch to a cup of tea if you’re lucky.”

Zelda nodded. The hospital was only a few streets away. She took Helen’s arm, leading her at a brisk pace towards Brick Lane. Helen was grateful for the support. She still felt dazed. Her heart hammered against her ribcage and she struggled to fill her lungs.

“I hadn’t realised the Ripper was one of your creatures,” Zelda said, eyes scanning the shadowy doorways as they walked. “I assumed he was just a mortal with a taste for violence.”

“Is that what you were doing?” Helen asked, her breathing still laboured. “Looking for the Ripper?”

“I was merely taking the air. I do not concern myself with mortal affairs.”

“You’ve come a long way from home – merely to take the air.”

“So have you,” observed Zelda coolly.

“I was on my way home from the hospital.”

“With your gun?”

“It would be rather imprudent to travel unarmed - given the recent attacks on women in this area.”

They had reached the junction with Whitechapel Road. They paused under a gas lamp for Helen to catch her breath.

She glanced at Zelda as she recovered herself. The witch was inscrutable, the golden light making her look like nothing so much as a serene, fearsome angel. She imagined that she didn’t appear so enigmatic. She felt hot and winded and shaken to the core.

“You should be more careful of the company you keep, Doctor,” Zelda told her. “Some creatures cannot be saved.” Something flashed across her expression. It might have been sympathy – it was gone too quickly for Helen to be sure.

A whistle sounded behind them, followed by the pounding of hobnailed boots against cobbles. Standing, as they were, in the spotlight it would have been foolish for them to attempt to do anything other than wait for the approaching policemen to reach them.

A middle-aged bobby arrived them first. His face was red and sweaty above his starched collar and thick wool tunic. “Begging your pardon, ladies,” he said, taking in their fine clothes with evident surprise. “Did you hear a noise?”

“There was a loud bang in that direction,” Zelda told him, pointing back the way they had just come.

“Did you see anyone?” he asked. “A man maybe?”

Zelda shook her head. “We did not wait to see who made the sound. We were travelling as fast as we could in the opposite direction.”

The rest of the constable’s party caught up to them: another uniformed bobby and two gentlemen in overcoats and wool hats.

“Helen!” exclaimed one of them.

She might have known James would be out searching tonight too.

“This is Doctor Magnus,” James explained to the rest of the party. “She has been assisting me in the analysis of the Ripper’s victims.”

Helen was, by now, unaffected by his colleagues’ evident incredulity that a woman might be capable of such a role. “I heard a gunshot. Has someone else been attacked?”

She felt James’ clinical scrutiny. What did he see? Dilated capillaries? Accelerated heart rate? The dust caked to the hem of her skirts? The powder on her gloved hand? “That’s what we’re going to investigate. Will you come with us?”

“Doctor Magnus and I are needed urgently at the hospital,” Zelda informed him, stepping slightly in front of Helen.

“I don’t believe I've had the pleasure,” James said, turning to her.

“Zelda Spellman,” she told him. “I am a midwife. We have been called to assist with a difficult birth.”

“I believe I know your sister,” he said with a nod of recognition. James had come across Hilda Spellman before, and knew by reputation – if not acquaintance – of the secretive little magical community of which she was a member. “Don’t allow us to detain you, Miss Spellman. I’m sure at this time of night you can get to your patient without Doctor Magnus’s assistance.”

Zelda glanced at Helen questioningly.

“Go on,” Helen told her. “I will accompany Dr Watson. There may be someone in need of medical assistance.”

Zelda nodded. “Very well. Go safely.”

They went their separate ways, Zelda crossing the main road while Helen followed the police party back towards Brick Lane.

“Is everything all right?” James whispered as they brought up the rear. “You seem flustered.”

“Just a little overheated from the rush to get to the hospital. Witches don’t seem to tire as quickly us mere mortals.”

James raised an eyebrow at her application of the word 'mortal'. His eye flicked briefly towards her hip and she prayed that the bulge of her holster was not visible beneath the padding of her bustle. “I was certain that the Ripper would attack again tonight,” he said, hastening his step. “I suspect someone has disturbed him. Who knows where he will be by now.”

They reached the corner. Helen glanced back behind her, scanning the wide pavements of the main road for Zelda's figure, but the street was deserted. She lifted her skirt and ran after James.

**Author's Note:**

> Not familiar with Sanctuary or the Chilling Adventures of Sabrina? They have some things in common. Here's the tl;dr:
> 
>  **Sanctuary:** Helen Magnus - an impeccably groomed, near immortal scientist, polymath and polyglot - runs an organisation called the Sanctuary which protects 'abnormals' from mercenaries, corrupt corporations, shady government agencies and the invading forces from Hollow Earth. Canon bisexual with a psycho ex-fiancé. 
> 
> **Chilling Adventures of Sabrina:** Zelda Spellman - an impeccably groomed, near immortal witch, polymath and polyglot - founds the Order of Hecate and saves the world from Satan, pagans, the Hoardes of Hell and her niece's stupidity. Canon bisexual with a psycho ex-husband.


End file.
